Behind Enemy Lines
by jetaimemoncheri
Summary: DerekSallyDerekCasey - Of flat tires, potpourri decor, vacancies, Truman-bashing, accusations and confrontations, problems ensue. Set after Futuritis.


_**A/N:**_ More Derek-centric than anything. We'll see? I really hope you enjoy (o:

_**Disclaimer:**_ Disclaimed and unaffiliated.

**Behind Enemy Lines**

_One_

--

"You're going to see Sally."

He double-checks his duffel bag. Although it's more intuition than curiosity; because he's certain he's included the necessities (some grungy shirts, extra pair of jeans, his toothbrush). And he's roughly convinced that Casey wasn't comprised in his check-list while he was composing it. (And he knows the moment she affirms it.)

"Yeah. Want a keepsake for your collection or something?"

Because _maybe _if he sounds nonchalant enough, she'll give it up.

"Actually…"

"No, Casey."

She pouts, because she has this psychological defect (denial) that convinces her that this kind of melodramatic expression fazes him in some kind of way… and she's _Casey_. And she's not coming, that's as far as it goes. Because it's _Sally_, the one girl that got him to act (somewhat) like a civilized resident of humanity, and if he (_she_) screws this up, he loses the one escape, the one bit of sanctuary he's worked so hard to obtain a second chance with.

"You're not the only one who misses her, you know."

"Casey, don't," he sighs, because frankly, he's not in the mood to be persuaded, "you need to accept the fact that, for _once_, it isn't all about you."

She's frowning now, and he knows he's struck a cord, "Of course it isn't about me, Derek…"

"The only reason you want to come is so you can escape reality for as long as manageable. This is _my _trip and I'll not have you go on and on with your never-ending rants and water-works and–"

"That's not true." Her tone is harsh and firm. "Believe it or not, I'm not wholly susceptible to the un-evolved male species, thank you very much. Just because I'm no longer in a serious, committed relationship does not mean I'm going to spend my summer before Queens concealed behind bed sheets and snotty tissues."

He rolls his eyes, because it sounds so _like _her, "It's only a matter of time before that little shell of denial you've built up around you spontaneously combusts. And I'd rather not be present at that time."

"Please, Derek."

"No."

The female population was so persistent and unrelenting and it wasn't helping his current situation. Because she wasn't going down without a World War IV and he really didn't want to stick around for that.

"Does George know about this?"

"Yes, Mom," he sighs, running a hand through his hair. "He's even provided support, supplied in cash form, and the keys to the Prince."

"You don't actually expect that old rust-bucket to get you all the way to Vancouver, do you?" She snorts. She _snorts_, as if she could possibly fathom about the classic, trusty steed's value and significance.

"I presume that the _Prince_ will make it to Vancouver and back without any delays, so long as there is no extra baggage," he says pointedly. "No tagalongs, sis."

"I'll pay for gas!" She blurts, and almost (_al_-_most_) looks regretful. Why is she so apt on coming again?

"No dice."

"And groceries, I'll pay for groceries," she tries again.

And he's enjoying this… this emotional torment, because, yeah it's twisted, but he's merely maintaining his step-brotherly intuition in which buttons are pushed to their limit.

"I think I'll manage."

"I'll pay for my own motel room," she's pleading, her pupils starting to dilate, which means she's probably about to undergo an anxiety attack sometime soon, so he falters purposely a bit, so he doesn't have to clean up the mess.

"How on earth are you going to get that kind of money?"

"Trust fund," she says evidently, and there's that gleam in her eyes that makes him want to puke, because she's letting her head swell. "Scholarship, remember?"

He narrows his eyes, but he doesn't know _why _because he's getting a scholarship, too (and getting in on hockey is just as equally to have a sense of accomplishment as getting in on academics and keener-smarts, thank you very much), and he decides it's because he really does _not _want her to go.

"Go paint a picture with Marti," he dismisses. "I'm busy."

"Why are you being so inflexible?"

"Why are _you _being so stubborn?" He disputes, shooting her a look. "What goal are you accomplishing by coming with me?"

She doesn't acknowledge this for the longest time, and she just stands there, looking solemn and pathetic. She doesn't have to say it aloud, because it's so obvious. And she's having the hardest time conceding, because weakness is just (_ohso_) deplorable. But he knows, and everyone else knows, and she may have passed Fine Arts with flying colors in high school, but the mask comes off behind the curtain.

"Because…"

And she looks down, fumbling with the hem of her shirt. He's said it already, but she's too scared to admit that he's exact, on the dot. He sighs, rubbing his face roughly with the palm of his hand, because this whole scene had turned into something so cliché, an odd, old sense of déjà vu. He's frustrated now, because just moments ago he was packing and getting his money together (and for the first time in his life, he's _prepared_) and now the picture was changing drastically. And a silent-sobbing-while-trying-to-maintain-dignity Casey in his doorway wasn't how he planned this at all.

She looks up now, and there's no hint of grief, which surprises him, and says, "I won't bother you, I promise. You do what you need to do and, if anything, I'll be there as moral support."

And he (does the only thing he can muster) pulls his eyebrows together, "Since when haven't you _eh_-_ver _not been a nuisance? I'm bothered by your very presence, McDonald, and I'm most certain that spending more than a week with you is enough to poison my sanctity."

She quickly wipes away the dubious look that mars her face and replaces it with reassurance.

"Derek, we both know that you have no 'sanctity' to poison." She says it teasingly, which makes the blood in his veins boil, because she's supposed to be _gone _already.

"You're not going to give it up, are you?"

And it's more a statement of fact than a question.

"Not until I'm buckled, strapped and loaded in the Prince."

He senses her steady will and determination and groans.

"In that case, I imagine that you'll be ready to go with duct tape over your yap at the crack of dawn?"

"Do you even know what the crack of dawn looks like?" Her eyebrows are raised, like she's genuinely shocked.

"Push it _any _farther and you can just disregard the entire…"

Something cracks in the depths of her very being and she starts to nod rigidly, almost snapping her head off of its hinges in the process. And she's _gone _finally, he thinks, just not the way he planned at all.

How's he supposed to explain this to Sally?

--

"I have to pee."

He rolls his eyes, because he saw this coming, which clarifies the reason that he had _reminded _her to relieve her bladder _before_ they started to drive. And he could briefly catch the sight of the freeway, so close he could almost taste it.

Casey starts to indignantly repeat, "I have to–"

Before Derek, within mere feet of the freeway entrance, makes a fierce U-Turn, jerking him, Casey and their luggage around the vehicle so fast that he was out of earshot by the time the other cars had bleated their horns and rolled down their windows to state an obscure string of profanities.

"Are you crazy!?"

She's groping her seatbelt and the top handle for dear life, her feet planted firmly on the dashboard to thwart her from going airborne out of the windshield (which is, secretly, what he might've been rooting for). And the swerving steadies, so that they're both driving (to the nearest gas station) in silence. Her hyperventilation starts to dawdle, and it slows to stable hums of meditation and calming breaths.

"Always the drama queen," he mutters under his breath.

"Always the reckless idiot," she counters, her eyes still clamped shut. "If it's alright with you, I'd actually like to live to see Vancouver, thanks."

"Despite my better morals, I'm really starting to contemplate throwing you out of the car," he tells her, then adds, "while it's still in motion."

"Well, for one, that's completely barbaric and I'm pretty sure it counts as first-degree murder. And secondly, you have _no _morals, so that statement was entirely senseless and unrealistic."

"It isn't illegal if I leave you stranded here while you're using the restroom, is it?" He retorts, pulling into the Chevron station.

She shoots him a sinister look, threatening to set him ablaze with her mere corneas, as she tells him to, "Stay here" and sets off toward the asexual restroom, ending her over-theatrical performance with a hissing rattle of the Prince's slammed car door. But once she hits the pavement, he notices, she starts to accelerate her tempo, just incase he takes off anyway against his better judgment (and this was too much for him, so it was only settling to laugh).

Because he (in _advance_) had already filled up the car, he's left leaning back in the driver's seat, his hands folded across his stomach, trying to resist the twitch of his fingers toward the gear shaft and keys in the ignition. And because he had already spent three whole minutes that morning shoveling down a bowl of cereal, he didn't have any menstrual cravings to do anything but sit. And wait. Which contradicted every fiber of his being, because _Derek Venturi _did not wait for anyone, or anything, and most particularly not for _her_. And, honestly, God knows how long…

"Let's go."

And there she was, her hair virtually disheveled and hands still polished with water, in a mad huff, pasting herself against the passenger seat.

"If the mere thought of abandonment makes your molecules tingle with speed, I would've revved the engine, for hilarity's sake." He smirks, starting the ignition.

Casey doesn't find the need to respond, and instead pulls her seatbelt over her chest and clicks it into place.

"If there are no more tasks that need tending to, your Highness, may we proceed?"

She rolls her eyes, smoothing down her hair with her damp hands and he bites back another laugh.

"Just drive, cretin."

And he essentially laughs this time, because _who_, no matter how evolved or how cultured the female genus was as opposed to the male, uses the circa-60's expression as an insult in the 21st century? Her tank was running low on ammo and she _had _to have seen the red blinking light that screams 'fuel empty'; either she doesn't notice or she doesn't care, because his amusement doesn't seem to faze her.

But he doesn't let this throw him off his game, because you can't have your cake and eat it, too (unless, of course, you're him; because whatever Derek wants, Derek gets), and he makes certain that just because he'd succumbed, and she was busy basking in her gloriousness, did _not _mean he'd let this trip pan out the way _she _planned.

Because it was just twenty minutes into the drive and it had already been spoiled (by her stupid insults and her stupid indignance and her stupid…) and he took to the 'One-Bad-Apple' mumbo jumbo, because he was starting to feel pretty conniving himself.

--

_**A/N:**_ So, I'm hoping that the preface was _somewhat _understandable. It's set after 'Futuritis' during their summer before Queens and Derek decides to take up on Sally's offer to stopover, but of course, what story would it be without Casey ragging on him the entire trip? I hope you enjoyed, and reviews/feedback are/is always appreciated (o:


End file.
